for sherlock_remix: "The First Morning of the Rest of Your Life"
Retold Author: lady_ganesh
Retold Story Title: The First Morning of the Rest of Your Life
Retold Prompt: There's an intruder in 221B.
Retold Story Pairings: John/Lestrade, pre-Sherlock/John/Lestrade
Retold Story Rating: PG
Retold Story Warnings: N/A
Retold Story Beta: tiggymalvern
Retold Story Britpicker: tiggymalvern
Summary: John was accustomed to strange things happening in the wee hours of the morning. It's just that it hadn't happened much since Sherlock's death.
"The First Morning of the Rest of Your Life"
John woke to the sound of voices.
Voices?
He blinked himself awake, listening all the while. The voices were coming from downstairs, low and urgent; they might have been angry, it was hard to tell. They had often been angry at this hour, when he'd lived with Sherlock, but things were different now.
He pulled his trousers on as quietly as he could, wondering, as he often did, why he'd chosen to come back to 221b, to this flat full of memories, where sometimes a member of Sherlock's old homeless network would stop by in the middle of the night and throw everything to hell. That was probably what the commotion downstairs was about, but John wasn't eager to take chances. He took his cane and held it in front of him as he went down the stairs, just in case.
He switched the light on to reveal Lestrade, holding a gun -- John's gun -- steady on the stranger before him.
The stranger was tall, taller than most men, and heavyset as well; twenty stone, at least. She was armed only with a walking stick, but she held it like a weapon, her arm pulled back and ready to strike. The gesture looked almost familiar--
"Oh, hell," John said, as the revelation hit him. "Greg, put the gun down." It was just as well his heart was already pounding; God only knew how he would've reacted to the shock in normal circumstances.
Lestrade stood firm; John wasn't sure if he was even fully awake or just running on instinct. "John, I--"
"It's my gun," John said. (When had he learned where John kept his gun?) "Put it down."
Lestrade lowered the gun, but his face was still suspicious. "What, we're just going to let someone waltz in here at two in the morning--"
"Three in the morning--"
"Three in the bloody morning," Lestrade repeated, "and then make her tea? Or were you--"
John looked at Sherlock, exasperated. "Will you bloody well tell him you're not dead?" He walked over and took the gun from Lestrade, who was still staring at the woman, though his expression had changed from anger to confusion. Of course the noise hadn't woken John up; Sherlock had entered the flat as he always had. Of course John hadn't needed his cane as he descended the stairs.
"I'm not dead," Sherlock said, in his normal voice, lowering the cane as his body language changed into something more familiar. "I realize this is likely something of a shock--"
John caught Lestrade's arm before he could take a swing. "Enough," John said. "Sit down. Both of you." He walked Lestrade to the sofa and put the gun down. "Take the wig off, Sherlock, you look ridiculous."
Sherlock actually looked embarrassed. "It's my hair," he confessed, but he did walk over and sit on the chair. "It's been dyed. Several times. I've almost forgotten my natural shade."
"Tell me why," Lestrade demanded, having collected himself enough to be angry. "Just tell me why."
Sherlock was taking the cheek pouches from his mouth, so it took him a moment to answer. "Because," he said. "Moriarty laid a trap, and I was fool enough to trigger it. If I didn't 'die,' others would. I chose a solution where no one would be executed."
"Who?" Lestrade demanded.
"Moriarty had a list," he answered. "....Mrs. Hudson was at the top."
"Christ," John said, under his breath. He had suspected Moriarty was playing a longer game than merely discrediting Sherlock and driving him to suicide, but this was more than he'd expected.
"Keep talking," Lestrade said.
"I had to be certain his network was completely eradicated," Sherlock said. "If I'd emerged before I was certain, my work would have been--"
"It wasn't just Mrs. Hudson, though," John said. "You said a list."
Sherlock considered for a long moment before answering. "Not just Mrs. Hudson, no."
"Me," John said.
"You," Sherlock confirmed.
"And?"
Sherlock sighed. "Lestrade. That's all."
"So I should be flattered?" Lestrade said, bitterly.
"Shut up," John snapped, at both of them. At everything.
Lestrade sighed and rubbed at his forehead. "I'm sorry. I just-- hell, Sherlock, you could have told someone. And I can't imagine how you--"
"Molly Hooper knew," Sherlock said. "I...confess I had to rely on my brother as well. They--" He unzipped the back of his dress and pulled a pair of enormous fake breasts out from under the fabric. "I suppose I owe him that." He sounded disgusted to admit it. "Molly proved to be a far better friend than I had ever appreciated."
"I brought round flowers," Lestrade said, his face in his hands. "Because I was worried for her."
"Least any of us could have done," John answered. "If she saved our lives." He was sorting through things now, thinking about Molly, how wretched it must have been to know the truth and not be able to speak it. How much more clever she was than he'd ever given her credit for being.
Sherlock pulled the dress back up over his shoulders to cover himself. He was looking far more familiar now, though his hair was still an odd ginger shade and he looked more ludicrously thin in the ocean of fabric. "She almost certainly did. All our lives."
"Of course," Lestrade said into his hands, and that was when John realized he'd been crying. "Of course she did. God, I'm so bloody angry at you right now."
At himself, too, John thought, for all that had happened. John had been through the same agonies, and he'd never had to arrest a man he'd considered a friend. He put a hand on Lestrade's thigh anyway, a futile attempt to reassure him. Lestrade reached down and took his fingers in a crushing grip; John could feel his tears.
Sherlock shifted his weight; he looked uncomfortable when John turned his attention back to him at last. "...does anyone have something I can wear?"
Eventually, Lestrade went back upstairs and found a pair of boxers and a t-shirt for Sherlock, and he and John stared at each other, dazed, while Sherlock changed.
"I want to know how," John said.
"You were concussed," Lestrade said. "That's how."
"I still--"
Lestrade nodded. "I know."
"You can still touch me, you know," he said, softly. "I don't--"
Lestrade bit at his lower lip for a second. "You know," he said. "You don't have to--"
John leaned over and kissed him, hard, so he wouldn't object further, and Lestrade's arms reached up to pull John closer. The undercurrent had always been there -- how John felt about Sherlock, how they both had dealt (and hadn't dealt) with Sherlock's death -- but things were infinitely more complicated and strange with Sherlock alive. But John still wanted what he'd built with Lestrade. He wasn't sure there was any other way to tell him. Lestrade relaxed, if only a little, in the embrace, and John felt his own body relaxing as well.
"You're going to tell me how you found my gun," John said, when they parted.
"That's obvious," Sherlock said, emerging from the bathroom. Lestrade attempted to pull back slightly, but John held him in place. Sherlock already knew, after all, and John wanted to show Lestrade that he still wanted him there; the intimacy between them was new, and had already felt fragile enough before Sherlock came stumbling back in the flat. "When you're alarmed, you immediately check the drawer you keep your pistol in. All Lestrade would have to do is observe you."
Lestrade gestured at Sherlock, conceding the point. "It's the first place you look when you've had a nightmare."
Sherlock was painfully thin, thinner even than when John had first met him. He collapsed back into his chair and looked at Lestrade and John with an expression John had never seen on his face before. It looked disconcertingly human. It looked needy.
"Sherlock," Lestrade said. He sounded vulnerable. "You're not all right, are you?"
Sherlock snorted. "I'm not entirely sure what 'all right' means."
John wondered, for a moment, if he were dreaming, and then realized if he were dreaming he would have realized and forced himself awake ages ago.
"Christ," Lestrade said, passing his hand over his face again. "It's almost four. We can all be idiots to each other in the morning. Come to bed."
John looked back and forth between them. "What, all of us?"
"We'll fit," Lestrade said. "Barely, but we'll fit. Come on. We're all exhausted." He rose, taking John by the arm. "Bed. Maybe tomorrow this will all make some kind of sense."
John was too tired to resist; he picked up his gun and let Lestrade lead him back to bed. To his shock, Sherlock rose from his chair and followed them up the stairs.
They did fit in John's bed, barely, mostly by Lestrade taking John in his arms and John pressing his back against Sherlock's...front. What are we doing? John wondered, but he supposed he knew what they were doing. Finding comfort in each other. Finally getting some rest. Hoping tomorrow it would all make some kind of sense.
It likely wouldn't, but Sherlock and Lestrade were warm, and Sherlock was alive. It hit him a bit harder, as he felt Sherlock shift against him. Alive. He felt Lestrade reach across his body, settling a hand on Sherlock's side, and all three men seemed to relax a little further.
Maybe it doesn't have to make sense, John thought, and closed his eyes.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Remember to leave feedback for the author!
Retold Story Title: The First Morning of the Rest of Your Life
Retold Prompt: There's an intruder in 221B.
Retold Story Pairings: John/Lestrade, pre-Sherlock/John/Lestrade
Retold Story Rating: PG
Retold Story Warnings: N/A
Retold Story Beta: tiggymalvern
Retold Story Britpicker: tiggymalvern
Summary: John was accustomed to strange things happening in the wee hours of the morning. It's just that it hadn't happened much since Sherlock's death.
"The First Morning of the Rest of Your Life"
John woke to the sound of voices.
Voices?
He blinked himself awake, listening all the while. The voices were coming from downstairs, low and urgent; they might have been angry, it was hard to tell. They had often been angry at this hour, when he'd lived with Sherlock, but things were different now.
He pulled his trousers on as quietly as he could, wondering, as he often did, why he'd chosen to come back to 221b, to this flat full of memories, where sometimes a member of Sherlock's old homeless network would stop by in the middle of the night and throw everything to hell. That was probably what the commotion downstairs was about, but John wasn't eager to take chances. He took his cane and held it in front of him as he went down the stairs, just in case.
He switched the light on to reveal Lestrade, holding a gun -- John's gun -- steady on the stranger before him.
The stranger was tall, taller than most men, and heavyset as well; twenty stone, at least. She was armed only with a walking stick, but she held it like a weapon, her arm pulled back and ready to strike. The gesture looked almost familiar--
"Oh, hell," John said, as the revelation hit him. "Greg, put the gun down." It was just as well his heart was already pounding; God only knew how he would've reacted to the shock in normal circumstances.
Lestrade stood firm; John wasn't sure if he was even fully awake or just running on instinct. "John, I--"
"It's my gun," John said. (When had he learned where John kept his gun?) "Put it down."
Lestrade lowered the gun, but his face was still suspicious. "What, we're just going to let someone waltz in here at two in the morning--"
"Three in the morning--"
"Three in the bloody morning," Lestrade repeated, "and then make her tea? Or were you--"
John looked at Sherlock, exasperated. "Will you bloody well tell him you're not dead?" He walked over and took the gun from Lestrade, who was still staring at the woman, though his expression had changed from anger to confusion. Of course the noise hadn't woken John up; Sherlock had entered the flat as he always had. Of course John hadn't needed his cane as he descended the stairs.
"I'm not dead," Sherlock said, in his normal voice, lowering the cane as his body language changed into something more familiar. "I realize this is likely something of a shock--"
John caught Lestrade's arm before he could take a swing. "Enough," John said. "Sit down. Both of you." He walked Lestrade to the sofa and put the gun down. "Take the wig off, Sherlock, you look ridiculous."
Sherlock actually looked embarrassed. "It's my hair," he confessed, but he did walk over and sit on the chair. "It's been dyed. Several times. I've almost forgotten my natural shade."
"Tell me why," Lestrade demanded, having collected himself enough to be angry. "Just tell me why."
Sherlock was taking the cheek pouches from his mouth, so it took him a moment to answer. "Because," he said. "Moriarty laid a trap, and I was fool enough to trigger it. If I didn't 'die,' others would. I chose a solution where no one would be executed."
"Who?" Lestrade demanded.
"Moriarty had a list," he answered. "....Mrs. Hudson was at the top."
"Christ," John said, under his breath. He had suspected Moriarty was playing a longer game than merely discrediting Sherlock and driving him to suicide, but this was more than he'd expected.
"Keep talking," Lestrade said.
"I had to be certain his network was completely eradicated," Sherlock said. "If I'd emerged before I was certain, my work would have been--"
"It wasn't just Mrs. Hudson, though," John said. "You said a list."
Sherlock considered for a long moment before answering. "Not just Mrs. Hudson, no."
"Me," John said.
"You," Sherlock confirmed.
"And?"
Sherlock sighed. "Lestrade. That's all."
"So I should be flattered?" Lestrade said, bitterly.
"Shut up," John snapped, at both of them. At everything.
Lestrade sighed and rubbed at his forehead. "I'm sorry. I just-- hell, Sherlock, you could have told someone. And I can't imagine how you--"
"Molly Hooper knew," Sherlock said. "I...confess I had to rely on my brother as well. They--" He unzipped the back of his dress and pulled a pair of enormous fake breasts out from under the fabric. "I suppose I owe him that." He sounded disgusted to admit it. "Molly proved to be a far better friend than I had ever appreciated."
"I brought round flowers," Lestrade said, his face in his hands. "Because I was worried for her."
"Least any of us could have done," John answered. "If she saved our lives." He was sorting through things now, thinking about Molly, how wretched it must have been to know the truth and not be able to speak it. How much more clever she was than he'd ever given her credit for being.
Sherlock pulled the dress back up over his shoulders to cover himself. He was looking far more familiar now, though his hair was still an odd ginger shade and he looked more ludicrously thin in the ocean of fabric. "She almost certainly did. All our lives."
"Of course," Lestrade said into his hands, and that was when John realized he'd been crying. "Of course she did. God, I'm so bloody angry at you right now."
At himself, too, John thought, for all that had happened. John had been through the same agonies, and he'd never had to arrest a man he'd considered a friend. He put a hand on Lestrade's thigh anyway, a futile attempt to reassure him. Lestrade reached down and took his fingers in a crushing grip; John could feel his tears.
Sherlock shifted his weight; he looked uncomfortable when John turned his attention back to him at last. "...does anyone have something I can wear?"
Eventually, Lestrade went back upstairs and found a pair of boxers and a t-shirt for Sherlock, and he and John stared at each other, dazed, while Sherlock changed.
"I want to know how," John said.
"You were concussed," Lestrade said. "That's how."
"I still--"
Lestrade nodded. "I know."
"You can still touch me, you know," he said, softly. "I don't--"
Lestrade bit at his lower lip for a second. "You know," he said. "You don't have to--"
John leaned over and kissed him, hard, so he wouldn't object further, and Lestrade's arms reached up to pull John closer. The undercurrent had always been there -- how John felt about Sherlock, how they both had dealt (and hadn't dealt) with Sherlock's death -- but things were infinitely more complicated and strange with Sherlock alive. But John still wanted what he'd built with Lestrade. He wasn't sure there was any other way to tell him. Lestrade relaxed, if only a little, in the embrace, and John felt his own body relaxing as well.
"You're going to tell me how you found my gun," John said, when they parted.
"That's obvious," Sherlock said, emerging from the bathroom. Lestrade attempted to pull back slightly, but John held him in place. Sherlock already knew, after all, and John wanted to show Lestrade that he still wanted him there; the intimacy between them was new, and had already felt fragile enough before Sherlock came stumbling back in the flat. "When you're alarmed, you immediately check the drawer you keep your pistol in. All Lestrade would have to do is observe you."
Lestrade gestured at Sherlock, conceding the point. "It's the first place you look when you've had a nightmare."
Sherlock was painfully thin, thinner even than when John had first met him. He collapsed back into his chair and looked at Lestrade and John with an expression John had never seen on his face before. It looked disconcertingly human. It looked needy.
"Sherlock," Lestrade said. He sounded vulnerable. "You're not all right, are you?"
Sherlock snorted. "I'm not entirely sure what 'all right' means."
John wondered, for a moment, if he were dreaming, and then realized if he were dreaming he would have realized and forced himself awake ages ago.
"Christ," Lestrade said, passing his hand over his face again. "It's almost four. We can all be idiots to each other in the morning. Come to bed."
John looked back and forth between them. "What, all of us?"
"We'll fit," Lestrade said. "Barely, but we'll fit. Come on. We're all exhausted." He rose, taking John by the arm. "Bed. Maybe tomorrow this will all make some kind of sense."
John was too tired to resist; he picked up his gun and let Lestrade lead him back to bed. To his shock, Sherlock rose from his chair and followed them up the stairs.
They did fit in John's bed, barely, mostly by Lestrade taking John in his arms and John pressing his back against Sherlock's...front. What are we doing? John wondered, but he supposed he knew what they were doing. Finding comfort in each other. Finally getting some rest. Hoping tomorrow it would all make some kind of sense.
It likely wouldn't, but Sherlock and Lestrade were warm, and Sherlock was alive. It hit him a bit harder, as he felt Sherlock shift against him. Alive. He felt Lestrade reach across his body, settling a hand on Sherlock's side, and all three men seemed to relax a little further.
Maybe it doesn't have to make sense, John thought, and closed his eyes.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Remember to leave feedback for the author!